Kissing Clay
by Assassin For Hire
Summary: ((CHP 2 UP)) From the authors of "World War Turkey"! Mr. Summers finds himself answering to Jean's wrath as his challenge lands him in a -heap- of trouble!
1. Default Chapter

===================================  
**KISSING CLAY  
**as written in roleplay by  
Krista C. (kabanas) and Jessica Duncan  
  
**PART ONE of TWO**

November 2001  
====================================  


  
**DISCLAIMER:** My chica and I may not own the Summers couple (those sexy kids belong to Marvel Comics), but we'd like to take credit for the quirky new traits we've added to their personalities in this roleplay. Our Jean and Scott LOVE having fun! And beating the hell out of each other in sexy challenges, but what the hey...we handle those knuckleheads just fine! So, if you happen to see any inside jokes...carry on. We're not really that willing to explain them! (Jess: "Rake off.") Her Royal Redness here was written by Jessica Duncan, who can be reached at Jess_Duncan@hotmail.com, while I took over the reins for Adonis Reincarnate. Comments are always welcomed and can be sent to Bohemian_Kris@yahoo.com.  
  
  
  
  
**One sunny autumn day. Lots of birds. Wind in the trees. That junk.**

**Scott Summers** is getting kind of sick of being the best at what he does. A whiz tactician, excellent marksman, and undeniable crackshot, the yellow-briefed wonder known as Cyclops has been dominating from home plate for the past two hours now. A tweaked catapult machine, provided by that beastly genius McCoy, is propped behind him where the catcher would normally be. Clay pigeons have been rocketed to the skies of all three outfields at dizzying speeds, sometimes five at a time. Now and then, smoke discharges from Scott's visor slits from the sheer workout he's getting, but Scott has managed to pulverize every single target tossed. He's a man who's in his prime, both in power and mental ability. And hey, it doesn't hurt that the sun is at full strength at this hour. This simply means Scott has near unlimited energy getting stored for his myopic gift. Though not exactly the most expressive of guys, he does indulge himself some commentary once in a while. "Untidy skies..." he mutters, stopping himself before an insult was hurled at something as silly as an inanimate disc. Scott stands back, loosening his shoulders for the next round. 

**Jean Grey** leans against the beautiful stonewall that hemmed the garden where her husband was busy being the best there is at what he does. And he always manages to look good doing it. Jean has been standing on the sidelines all day, her careful attention providing that should any of the clay discs whizzing by her at 10,000 miles per hour get past Cyclops' line of site, they wouldn't go smashing into the mansion's windows. 

**Scott Summers** A bit of amusement colors this navy-attired Adonis' visage. Just the barest of smirks is tossed in the direction of his good-natured wife, cackling internally at his flawless score. Rubbing his marigold-gloved hands in mischief, his kevlar boots ride over the dust and gravel of this small, makeshift ballpark, squaring his body forward. Straightening at his full height—a glorious 6'3" of pure muscle, reflexes, and just a touch of good looks—Scott's trigger hand hovers over the dial tucked away to the side of his visor, eyes scanning the skies. A blanket of cottony clouds. The sun beneath. His breathing controlled and relaxed... There is a sudden whirring behind him and three clay discs are shot into the air, cutting the gentle breeze just slightly over Randy Johnson's top pitching speed of 105 MPH. The pinion gears and racks rotate inside Cyclops' visor as he adjusts the dial, making their own whirring noise. Leveling himself, the field leader lets erupt his ruby-flamed energy. THOOM! THOOM! THOOM! Three perfectly-timed lasers shatter the fragile targets into pieces. Terminator, this one. And not a bit out of touch. 

**Jean Grey**'s slow, paced applause is audible across the courtyard, as well as her smirk being clearly visible.

"Now, if you could just apply all that muscle and concentration to...other things."

Coyly flicking her hair over her shoulder, she adds, "Like raking the lawn?

She jests, though, because true to his word, come Saturday morning, the yard had been a sea of green, barely broken at all by fallen leaves. Jean's not in battle attire today but monitoring progress nonetheless. Craning her neck around the post she's leaning against, the redhead inspects the machine hurling clay discs at her husband.

"I think you've tired it out," Jean gestures gracefully to the plume of smoke rising from the exhausted piece of machinery. He'd been at it for hours. 

**Scott Summers **When Scott smiles, it's an orthodontist's dream. Two pearly white rows brighter than the sun itself beam at Jean and, unsurprisingly, are reserved only for her enjoyment. Yes, kids. It is advantageous to brush your teeth six times a day. Humoring her, he grandly gestures to the spot he's standing over, motioning—both with his hand and mouth—"You want some of this?" Jean might actually take the challenge seriously if only his face wasn't lighted up like a menorah. Yes, kids. Cyclops is a pushover. But what a sexy pushover he is. Though a certain Cajun in the household already has trademark rights over the middle name, "Charm," Scott can hold his own in the Smart Mouth Department. Besides, he treats this woman good. Damnit. 

Resting a hand on his belted hip, Cyclops trails a mock-reproachful look at his wife's form all the way until he's approached McCoy's contraption, whereupon he carefully cuts off the power. God, the trouble he's gotten into staring at her like that. 

**Jean Grey** Excuse her while she turns away to have a cardiac. No, really. Shaking her head, she almost has to smile at the expression she's accorded. Tossing her warm gray scarf about her neck, she takes her sweet time crossing the cobblestone, and then halts by the machine to inspect it.

"I wonder if I could rig this to shoot leaves everywhere. That'd be scenic, wouldn't it." 

**Scott Summers** is convinced he married a sadist. Assuming a more lazy, easygoing stance as Jean approaches, Scott schools his face into less charm, more sardonic amusement. His gloves are slowly peeled from his industrial-strength hands, the knuckles on both hands bandaged for ultimate grip. With an arm, he squeaks the tight-fitting, miraculously lint-free fabric over his lenses, squeaking it clean. It takes care of his glistening brow next. 

Muttering, he approaches her with a reproaching, "Tease… Think you can buy my services with hot chocolate?" 

**Jean Grey** Sadist, indeed. Folding her arms firmly across her stomach, she regards his approach with nothing more that indifference. Completely indifferent. That is, except for her gaze, which is, as they say, loaded.

"No."

And when she was sure he'd accepted that for a placating, demure answer, she adds, "I have many other ways. Many." 

**Scott Summers** hovers over the batter's box yet again in reply. Assuming the batter's stance, Scott poses his arms into a solid grip over his imaginary bat, totally flexing. Fluidly, he swings it in a slow arc, shrugging his shoulders along. To everyone's horror, he actually manages to make a bit of a dance out of it.

"Ichiro Jean's got a homerun…homerun…homerun…" he motions, the grown goof, another grin growing on his visage.

Then, straightening with his back to her and his arms folded…

"Care to wager lawn duty for a demonstration, Red?" 

**Jean Grey** replies, "NO, Cyclops, I don't. because there's no negotiating in lawn duty." Although she quite enjoyed that... 

**Scott Summers** literally doubles over in laughter. That's a rare and charming gift from Scott, to anyone who knew him well enough. The boy doesn't laugh. He doesn't even like breaking an emotion when the other kids are around. He likes wasting his good looks and innate charm on wholly feigned restraint. That's it… No more Mr. Nice Guy… Spinning, Scott saunters...nay he stalks...nay! The devil! He totally commands the distance between them, devouring her smart look with a disciplinarian's calculating gaze and self-assured strut... 

"Jean…" he lowers his voice about four octaves, towering over her, "Sweetheart… your hot chocolate is -not- that convincing…."

He's teasing of course, but that's all the boy is really good for. Looking good and teasing the snot out of his beloved wife. 

**Jean Grey** smiles brightly, utterly oblivious (but not really) to the effect this was all supposed to have on her. In the spirit of the game however, she feigns haughtiness and frowns. Her slight shoulders straighten, and doesn't the sly woman's chin tilt upwards just a notch. Raking (haw.) his figure with a cool gaze, Jean steps away and towards the machine, selecting a clay disc off the top of the pile to inspect... 

"That's not what you said last time I made it."

Were they even talking about hot chocolate any more? 

**Scott Summers** stares at her cold figure for what seems like an eternity. She has pulled this stunt on him many times in the past, and perhaps in lives beyond this time and earthly plane…and it's grated on his cool nerves every time. 

"Jean Grey…" he folds his arms, trying to sketch whatever ounce of dignity and authority he had left into the gravel, "you have no idea how much patience I've got for you."

And, because he just HAS to include it in somewhere…

"I've been through less cold snowstorms in Anchorage!" 

**Jean Grey** purses her lips, regarding her husband with an utterly unreadable expression. Fortunately for both of them, she knows exactly how far to push. And when to stop being a cow. Now would be that time, his allusion to Anchorage told her. He only said that sort of thing when she was getting close to genuine sassiness.

"I know, I know."

Snickering, she sets down the disc and pats his arm.

"I'm an awful, frigid harpy, aren't I." 

**Scott Summers** Ahem. That was better… Despite that he appears the god of infallibility, Scott Summers isn't the Tin Man. Conversely, he felt things on a much deeper level than most people could even begin to fathom. Like his wife, his humanity is both far encompassing and fragile. Which is not to say he wanted their merriment to drop so suddenly at this moment. The dark brows beneath the gleaming, fitted visor lift in sly amusement, proclaiming that he was merely kidding before. No matter how much he was ridiculed, he always made sure she had the last word. He's too much the gentleman, too much the boy scout, most definitely too much in love with her not to look out for her best interests. Even if the least he could is to satisfy her strong ego. Their relationship is planes above even the most complex of marriages. Through apocalyptic time jumps, irreconcilable differences and plain hardship, they've built an unbreakable bond of understanding. Theirs is a give-and-take dynamic…and so, he's quick to pull out the mean-spirited leash from around her neck. 

"Just for that, I ought to work you to the bone propelling those discs by hand…" he relaxes, leaning to plant, in his own little way, an apologetic kiss on her cheek. 

**Jean Grey** replies, "And I'd do it, too, you know."   
  
**Scott Summers** stoops to dislodge three clean clay discs from the catapult's rear compartment. They're promptly dropped on his wife's hands.

"Let's get started then," he says without further instruction and walks off to the batter's box. 

**Jean Grey** grins, shrugging off her scarf. He ought to know well enough that she'd never shirk a training session. However, this would turn out to be far easier on her than it would on him. Concentrating on the first disc barely, she lets it hover into the air as her telekinetics enfold it with a pink sheen. Then the second and third follow, until all three clay discs hover in the air in front of her. And they're off on three different paths to him. 

**Scott Summers** all digs his toes into the dust and puts his game face on, trying to reserve both his mental and physical energy for the training ahead. With the sun basking his face, Scott can literally feel his eyes growing full with the solar energy getting stored in them minute by minute. His effective range is approximately 2,000 feet and at maximum force, his optic beams can tip over a full 5,000-gallon tanker truck at a distance of 20 feet or puncture a one-inch carbon steel plate from a distance of 2 feet. In laymen's terms, this one packs some serious heat in those shades of his. Cue some applause for Boy Wonder here. 

When he and his brother, Alex, were falling at an alarming rate from a burning plane, it was Scott who peppered the ground beneath them into a pulp to soften their landing with the sheer force of his optic energy. In effect it acted as a psychokinetic projection of his mental desire for self-preservation. All of that has little significance in the here and now, however, because he's cultivated steely control over his powers through years of training in the Danger Room. Skeeting clay is like child's play to him. As aforementioned, Cyclops' range is 2,000 feet. He simply takes his time destroying each disc with cannon-like proficiency. It's cause he also possesses the ability to compute trigonometric and geometric relations with great accuracy, you see. No wonder he loves playing pool. Besides, the less he strains, the more he can get out of his shot. 

**Jean Grey** folds her arms and calls across the courtyard.

"I don't think you showing off your prowess at littering the ground with clay is helping MY training at all, sweetheart." 

**Scott Summers** doesn't budge his trigger finger from his dial as he glances over his shoulder, completely amused.

"So work me overtime, gorgeous." 

**Jean Grey** clenches her teeth against her intended reply of "Rake off" and jerks her hand to call another clay towards her. With mind-boggling speed, and a terse expression on Phoenix's face, it hurtles towards his head, her will to thwap him for that translating into the clay's trajectory. 

**Scott Summers** barely manages to duck in time as the clay pigeon comes zooming past his darkly-handsome russet hair with alarming speed. Alright, so he deserved that one... When Scott straightens, he's thankful his head is still on his shoulders. Feisty, this woman.

"I'm sorry, I thought we played nice around here?" 

Scott's broad frame subtly lifts and falls, silently chuckling out of self-admonition. 

**Jean Grey** goes on to ignore the comment and call another disc to her grasp with the power of telekinetics. Cooly glancing back to Scott, she levitates the pigeon and raises a brow, her expression clearly reading, "That phased you?" The clay shoots out of her range with no less speed than the last. 

**Scott Summers** has never enjoyed lying down. Especially if it's a bed of pure dust and chalk he's just found himself getting cozy with. He regretted his previous comment already because as soon as it left his mouth, Jean was already on his case with pure, unbridled vengeance. God, how sexy. From his slightly crouching position, Scott suddenly finds himself hitting the deck, not giving her the satisfaction of beheading her husband dearest. Oh, so that's how she was gonna play…

"Should I kiss your feet while I'm down here?" he smirks-an angelic, devastating device that usually waters down her flaming personality.

But could it save him here now? Scott keeps quiet with an inaudible, "Keep prayin', Scottie-boy…" 

**Jean Grey**tosses across the yard, "If you can manage to crawl over here in one piece..."

Apparently, that was the prelude to a barrage of pigeons, both her hands up now and forcing them across the distance with all the power of infuriated teke behind them. And she showed no signs of being done, either, his weapon of choice having no effect whatsoever. 

**Scott Summers** Sweet heaven… Finger already on the dial and heart pounding, Scott struggles to a stand, first kneeling with some effort before he could find his balance on two feet. Sentinels, pompous immortals, evil geneticists…none of those villains could compare to an angry Phoenix. Cyclops suddenly finds himself amidst a maelstrom of frisbee-sized clay projectiles, some actually managing to nick his arms. Despite that he is in gales of laughter and near losing his concentration, this is utterly dangerous work, considering any misplaced aim could find its way straight to his wife. His only hope is to carry out his defensive maneuvers until McCoy's contraption runs out of ammunition. When the battle gets intense, Scott resorts to more physical means of staying unharmed. Powerful lunge kicks break flying discs in half when they get in the way. Scott remains light on his feet and continues to dodge the old-fashioned way. His anticipation is remarkable and has been responsible for saving his life on more than one occasion. He might as just as well be suited to military training. 

When a disc manages to sneak past the others and shatter on his right shin, however, Scott is victim to a heavy grunt of pain. Thankfully, the thick concussive beam that accidentally shot into the sky met the clouds, and not Jean.

Yelling through the pandemonium, Scott lifts his eyes and yells with utter command, "Baby, ENOUGH!" 

**Jean Grey** And just like that, all hell is contained again, the birds in the trees about the courtyard resuming their songs. One hand on her hip, the other casually splayed before her compare not at all to her look of smug satisfaction. Cyclops had said uncle. 

**Scott Summers** did marry a sadist. It's a pitiable sight to see Cyclops in such a horrid state of disarray. His mahogany hair and breathing both are now uneven and misplaced. Beads of sweat had again claimed his forehead. He works his jaw in consternation, a habit he's had since childhood. Around them, steaming piles of clay lay beneath swirling clouds of dust. The field leader looks beyond exhausted. He looks like he's in shock. And yet, though Jean had managed to defeat him this afternoon, she hasn't broken him. Contrary to his plea earlier, he hasn't had enough. When it came to Jean, his goddess, he could never get enough of her. 

Letting the clay powder and utter mischief color his visage, Scott schools together his reserve and takes on a more neutral position.

"So," he straightens, a grin lifting the corner of his lips, "does that mean we've got a date in the Danger Room?" 

**Jean Grey** regards him for the barest of moments. Her beloved little glutton for punishment. THUNK. Didn't a "stray" pigeon "accidentally" thwap into his shoulder, then clatter to the ground. Casting a gleefully self-satisfied smirk across the yard at her husband, she answers, "You're on, hotshot."  
  
  
  
  


=============================================================  
Enjoyed ourselves, did we? (Scott: "Not that I'd admit it...") (Jean: "A-haw.")

**Next:** It's the battle of the sexes, the war between husband and wife,  
the ultimate guilty pleasure read! Phoenix makes good on that challenge  
from her husband and Cyclops gets a rematch, Danger Room-style!  
Ooh, SUCH excitement!

Keep an eye out for **Part Two**, to be posted very shortly! :)

(It's awaiting approval from the best friend, you see.)


	2. Kissing Clay - Part II

==========================================  
**KISSING CLAY  
**as written in roleplay by  
Krista C. (kabanas) and Jessica Duncan

**Part TWO of TWO**

November 2001  
==========================================  


  
  
**DISCLAIMER:** Woot! Marvel Comics would like us to inform you that we don't own Scott and Jean. Sad, n'est pas? The things we could with those two, if only Jess and I had the chance to write for Marvel! Oh, wait. The mansion would be an absolute nuthouse. I guess some things are better left online. *snickers* _Comment is greatly wanted!_ I'm kinda new to this fanfic business, would appreciate your support. Sankoo very mas!

NOTE: Wasn't Jess _gracious_ enough to let me write for Jean, for a change? Brat. I don't recollect, but I'm sure I had to shove Scott her way before she'd comply or something. Harpy. In any case! I took over for Jean Grey in this one, and she wrote for Scott. And look how well we compliment each other! :)

  
  
**The Danger Room. Near-dusk, that same afternoon.**

**Scott Summers  
**_So, yeah. My wife is a sadist. She beats me, and tortures me. I've never had to sew her clothing, but I'm sure if I'd made just one more smartass remark this afternoon, I'd be doing that right now. Actually, it's because of those smartass remarks that I'm programming the DR. She may have me wrapped around her finger, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna let her make me say uncle twice. Excuse me while I snicker. She's off getting into her uniform. I'm not complaining. And I bet she doesn't know that I'd take a few clay pigeons in the head any day if it helped her vent that temper of hers. Correction: she -does- know, and that's the only thing that saved me from decapitation earlier. Well, the challenge has been extended and accepted. Just because I fear for my pride, doesn't mean I'll back down. _

**Jean Grey  
**_I'm married to the Scat Man. I swear these days Scott has been equal parts motor mouth and ego-flamed smart alec. Just earlier, I had tried to sully the man's incorrigible antics with a nice, literal, thwap on the head to drag him back down to planet Earth… And you know what he did to me? He just egged me on for another fight. Well, Cyclops has got another thing coming if he thinks he can best Phoenix at her own game. He wants things to shoot at? Oh, he'll get things to shoot at. He wants to make smart ass remarks? Let's see him try to joke his way out of a barrage of clay power while his nerves subtly freeze over. Besides, he's a man. And I know -just- the right tactics to bring him on his knees when push comes to shove. Game on. _

**Scott Summers**  
_While it's true that my antics are sometimes what Jean would consider incorrigible, she's lying if she tries to tell you she doesn't get off it. And she will. Cause I -know- Jean. I know her better than anyone ev-- ahem. I know for a fact she ate my last danish. But that's besides the point. I know damn well she's gonna try and stick me in one spot and then beat me senseless like she does in basketball. Like I mind. See, there's not much one can do against a sassy telepath. An unfortunate truth I've had to come to terms with over many years, DR sessions and sore muscles. Ooops, neck cramp. Ouch. The point is, I'll let her win. Because when Jean's happy, I'm happy. And relatively safe from gratuitous bruising. _

**Jean Grey**'s smirk is unbearably adorable as she tugs her crimson leather gloves tighter around her grip.

"Stop faking a neck cramp, Summers. Just bring it."

She knows he can hear her perfectly through the top-of-the-line stereo transmitters plastered throughout the adamantium walls of the Danger Room. Her emerald eyes shift from their gaze high up near the rafters where he was still in the Control Room, down to her level. Jean is, at best, meditating and trying to pool her concentration together so she won't lose it like she did earlier outside. 

**Scott Summers**  
_Alright. Here goes nothing. If I'm not out in three hours, send in a priest and an ambulance. She's waiting in the 'Room when I get there, looking smug if anything. She knows I won't make the first move because really, it wouldn't do much for our relationship if I, y'know, sent a blast at her point blank. Although... maybe if I... just... fold my arms like this..._

"Why, your temper a bit touchy, sweetheart?"

_DUCK! _

**Jean Grey**  
_Out of nowhere, I suddenly find myself yelling: "I am FIRE and LIFE incarnate!" Okay, I don't really. Guess that was all in my head. Besides, I'm trying to teach my husband a lesson, not send him into cardiac arrest. Having peered into his thoughts through the psychic rapport we have, however, I know exactly what he's thinking and exactly what kind of reaction he's trying to elicit from me. And while I never I would admit it, yes. I do get off his antics. I didn't exactly marry him for the yellow briefs, now did I? Heaven help me, I designed that costume, too__... __He hasn't changed much, my husband. He's just gotten more cynical as the years have piled on. Once in a while, he can still drive me insane with his comments and while I've always been better at verbal sparring than he is, he's always known what buttons of mine to push. Well, he better look out cause I'm pushing HIS buttons straight into overdrive. Hard. One clay pigeon, two clay pigeons, ten clay pigeons, floor… Both of us know this will all be effortless on my part…but who's to say Scott Summers doesn't get off of running around and looking macho?_

"Keep opening that handsome mouth of yours, love, I may just get to feed you some terracotta for dinner." 

**Scott Summers** replies, "It'd be the first dinner you made in a while."

_Alright. My ass is hers for that one. I realize that taunt was designed to ...DUCK! ... infuriate my lovely wife, but all said with love, right? Right. Pigeon. Blast. BLAST. Three pigeons... ouch. Blast. Duckblast. Cruel harpy. Gotta hand it to her, though, that's some kinda woman who can lob endless amounts of clay at her husband and still inspire love. Ow, damnit. Blast. _

**Jean Grey **could do this all afternoon. Or had the two of them already missed dinner because of this cruel charade of theirs?

"I don't know if I've ever told you this, honey, but you're an absolute dream boat when your face registers pain and panic like that…"

She can barely contain her snicker. With both outstretched hand and forehead flaming with a magenta aura, Jean's arsenal can never be exhausted considering Cerebro can supply her with as many discs as she wants. But can the boy run, too? Let's find out. Standing some forty feet away from her soldier of a husband, Jean concentrates her firepower on Cyclops' legs, daring him to dodge. 

**Scott Summers**  
_Holy God...and now I have to run. What is this, a circus for her amusement? I think not. Unfortunately, yelling "Enough" is not an option here, but if I just ... BLAST ... there. See how easy it is to fire off your little minions when the ground under YOU is being assaulted. And fear not, she's completely safe... you see, I've calculated my angles just… pigeon! Blast. Momentary distraction. Thankfully, I take the opportunity to slide in behind the errant Phoenix and settles an arm firmly around her waist._

_Pulling her with careful roughness against me, I lean down to growl, _"Enough." 

**Jean Grey**  
_I can't explain to you now even if I tried, the exact reaction Scott DID elicit from me just then. It's the same sort of feeling I got when he first kissed me. I don't think anyone quite understands how much of a mystery Scott Summers can be. Just when you think you've got him cornered, just when you think he's down for the count… there he is, standing behind you, armed. He moved so fast and grabbed me so hard, I didn't even see him coming. I lost him to that blinding shockwave of pure solar energy he had unleashed beneath my feet. "Touche," I'm sure he was thinking. But right now, I'm not quite sure WHAT he's thinking. I can only manage so much control not to scream out of surprise, much less do I have the energy to shrug him off my frame. It must have been the smell of him. I haven't been this close to him all day. My eyes fall to the floor, I can't lift or allow myself to turn around and look at him. Because just like that? Jean Grey got told… _

**Scott Summers **lets his gaze falter as he leans down to press a gentle kiss on Jean's cheek... "Please." 

  
  
**THE END  
  
Or the beginning. *smirk* More zany Scott and Jean moments coming soon.**


End file.
